


"Dinner, nothing more."

by DegenerateBible



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Murder Husbands, Submissive Hannibal, dominant!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4271754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DegenerateBible/pseuds/DegenerateBible
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Hannibal is a practicing physician and Will Graham is his husband. A dinner party and an after dinner treat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Dinner, nothing more."

In the kitchen: meat roasting. Root vegetables soaking in a stockpot of red wine and some sagey spice that is not quite sage, but damn if Will Graham can’t name it. He’s in Hannibal’s kitchen, sipping good scotch on the spotless counter, spotless, despite the numerous cooks in white cloaks and toques hurrying to plate hor d’oeuvres. Hannibal is amongst them, long and singular, carving a radish into a rose. He’s humming something, something classical no doubt, but Graham can’t decipher it. 

 

“Hannibal,” Will ventures, finishing his glass. A hand goes to his throat; loosening the burgundy tie his lover tied just a bit too tightly half an hour earlier. His blazer hangs on a chair in the dining room. The doctor doesn’t look up, yet, it’s clear by a minuscule shift, a slight arch of back like a feline, that he hears his name. 

 

“Yes, William?” Another petal added. 

 

“What the hell am I doing here?” 

 

Surprise. Not blatant, but the knife slips. A single drop of crimson blooms on his thumb. He raises his golden eyes to meet Will’s and nonchalantly laps it up. The profiler can practically taste the copper. 

 

“Simple, William.” He passes the finished rose to a server who seems to have sprung from a void. “I would like my colleagues to meet you. Is that an issue?” He wipes his knife on a towel near his lover’s wrist. “If so, you could have told me when I implored this of you earlier in the week.”

 

Earlier. He’d asked, after Will had fucked him against his desk, sunk his nails into the doctor’s pale thighs and swore in Hannibal’s native tongue. The words commanding, unnatural on the palate, twisting language back to its primal grunting origins. And how Hannibal had whined, panted, whimpered, and bucked against him, knocked his head back, exposing his throat to Will, surrendered. After that, how could he deny him anything? 

 

“Are you alright?” Those eyes staring at him smugly, a sharp sliver of a grin. “You seem distracted.” 

 

“Distracted,” Will repeats, his gaze traveling to Hannibal’s throat, indentations of canine and molar hidden under a collared shirt. A smile tugs the corner of his full mouth. “I’m just wondering how long before you can wear V-neck shirts again, doctor.” 

 

A server behind him chortles. He’d forgotten their audience.

 

“Our guests will be here in 20 minutes,” Hannibal replies; tone that of a scolding schoolteacher as he removes his apron to reveal a marvelous suit. Slimming and dark, ornate waistcoat, tie and matching pocket square. “I suggest you work on your rudeness before they arrive.” 

 

Will moves for another sip, but his glass is empty.

 

…

 

The guests arrive promptly at 7 o’clock. Luxury vehicles curling up the graveled drive. 

 

All the men seem to be experiencing various degrees of decay. All flesh around the middle, even the younger men. Years of teenage debauchery finally visible. The wives are all slender, sickly looking former debutant runner-ups. Their perfume makes Will’s head pulse. 

 

“So you’re in government?” A question shot at him by a woman with platinum blonde hair and too much lipstick. It’ll be hell getting the stains off the stemware, Will thinks, imagining Hannibal later, bent over the sink and elbow deep in suds. He peers up at her from the beautiful plate of venison, unsure of what to say. 

 

“Yes,” he says, and his voice seems to echo. The rest of the table is silent. “I’m a professor for the Behavioral Science Unit in Quantico. Occasionally I’m called upon for help with an active investigation.” 

 

“How exciting!” But it’s clear she doesn’t find it exciting at all. Conversations trickles back to a steady flow. Medical terms and procedures thrown out without explanation: 

 

“Yes but the ventricular bypass…” 

 

“No the aorta complication would’ve…” 

 

“Nonsense. The endocarditis surely was the cause…” 

 

A woman seated at Will’s left chuckles haughtily around her glass of Shiraz, before speaking to him in a low, conspiring voice. “They can go on for hours. Debating their little surgeries and clinical trials. Such boring conversation but I’m sure you’re used to it. The role of a doctor’s wife, am I right?” 

 

Will feels his face go hot, his throat go dry. 

 

“How did you two meet anyway?” The question, bounced at both he and Hannibal simultaneously by the neurosurgeon with a fading hairline. The table is split. The women peer at Will curiously while the men all stare intently at Hannibal, who unhurriedly sips his wine. 

 

“We met at a coffee shop,” they say, voices perfectly aligned. It’s the same vague tale they always tell. 

 

The truth? They didn’t meet. They collided. Will exiting as Hannibal was trying to enter. Will, too preoccupied with the demons ravaging his skull to pay attention to other patrons, coffee cup spilling everywhere. He still remembers his embarrassment; how he’d dropped to the floor with his napkins, underestimating their proximity until his nose knocked against the other man’s knee, inhaling the earthy tweed and the newly spilled, hot chicory. 

 

“It is quite alright. A simple mistake was it not?” The accented man had crouched to his level with his own napkins, small frown at his ruined trousers, eyes flashing auburn. 

 

“I’m still sorry. I’ve ruined your pants.” 

 

“I was heading home anyway.” And he must’ve seen the confused look Will was displaying. Who heads home at 8 in the morning? “ Allow me to introduce myself: Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I just finished a 48 hour shift.” 

 

“I’m Will. And wow, I couldn’t imagine working that long.” 

 

“I am sure you could. You seem like someone very good at imagining things.” 

 

A flash of a feral grin. 

 

Intrigued eyes shielded by smudged glasses. 

 

And it had all detonated from there. 

 

“How cute!” The blonde woman chirps, and the scene fades. Hannibal offers her a benign smile before giving Will a look that says he’s despising this just as much as his lover. Will regards him over the rim of his half-empty wine glass and says, “then why did you do this?” with his eyes. 

 

An almost imperceptible shake of the head is his only answer. 

 

…

 

The dinner drags on until the late evening. By the time the guests decide to depart, everyone is thoroughly full and a little drunk. 

 

“You sure know how to throw a party doctor!” The neurosurgeon is slurring, sweat-wet hands pawing at Hannibal’s broad shoulders. Will’s lips curl in moderate distaste. The wife pretends to miss all of this. 

 

“You flatter me Hank,” the host replies, and herds the drunken, ridiculously extravagant and unhappy people to the front door. “We’ll have to do this again. Goodnight.” 

 

The sounds of car engines and the crunch of gravel fade into nonexistence. The sudden silence is dizzying. 

 

Hannibal lets out a fatigued huff, before turning to Will with a smile. 

 

“Thank you for attending dinner tonight,” he says, voice quiet, calm. “It made the evening bearable.” 

 

And he begins cleaning up, without another word. 

 

Will follows him into the kitchen, pours himself another Scotch, and watches Hannibal wash dishes. He doesn’t ask to assist, just observes. 

 

He’s been patient. He’s been restrained. 

 

“Hannibal,” he says and stalks silently up to the other man, wrapping his hands around the other’s waist, pressing their heads together. “That dinner was horrific.” 

 

A small chuckle reverberates in Hannibal’s chest, rumbling and warm and they are both smiling as Will begins to rub his lover’s shoulders. 

 

“Yes it was. I have no idea—”abrupt sigh, Will’s hands rubbing his hips, slight caresses at his strong thighs. “William.”

 

A warning? A plead? Will can’t decide. “Yes?” He asks feigning an innocence that is not in his voice. Rubbing in consistent circles, he feels the doctor stiffen, the warmth between his thighs and smirks when Hannibal begins moving against him. Water sloshes in the soapy basin, slips over the sides. 

 

“The dinner was horrific but the meal was beautiful,” he purrs, feeling his sex grow heavy and hard. He knows what complimenting his food does to Hannibal. “Delicious. Though I couldn’t stop thinking about how much I wanted those awful people to leave so I could fuck you.” 

 

A sharp intake of breath at the crudeness, not the least bit disapproving. 

 

“Will…” A definite plead. “Teasing is very, very rude.” 

 

And it’s Will’s turn to chuckle, hands traveling up to caress his lover’s taut stomach. “But it’s not teasing doctor.” A firm hand cupping Hannibal’s length. An uninhibited moan blossoms from his throat. “Would you like me to show you?”

 

“The dishes,” is Hannibal’s weak protest, though he’s already rocking slowly against Will’s palm, craning his neck for a kiss. 

 

“The dishes,” Will murmurs against his ear, squeezing himself closer, “Will be here in the morning.” And if he wasn’t so far gone, if Will’s hands weren’t between his thighs, his hard length against the curve of Hannibal’s ass, he certainly --

 

“Hannibal,” Will growls, cupping the erection in his hands more firmly. “I’ve been patient haven’t I?” The doctor nods and is rewarded with a kiss, all tongue and teeth. “I’ve put up with the meaningless small talk and the grown men pawing at you. You don’t know how many times I could’ve slit that man’s throat.” 

 

“William,” he’s whining now, moaning things in French, Italian, Hungarian. Will loves him best this way. 

 

“He was looking at you like he just wanted to spread you out on your own dinner table. Now that is rude, doctor. Even I have the decency to spread you out in the kitchen, away from the guests.” And he’s rocking his length against his lover’s ass, stroking the taller man’s cock, slow, agonizingly slow. Hannibal is groaning, hands still wrist deep in the sink balling into fists. Low groans, because they both know it’ll take Will being deep inside him, thrusting with abandon for Hannibal to even consider begging. But when he does…

 

“Hannibal,” Will sing songs because he knows he can make him cum now, with his deliberate teasing. “If you want me to, I’ll fuck you on your kitchen floor. But a bed would be more comfortable don’t you think?” 

 

And if anything, Hannibal is a man of reason, of comfort, of what would worked best for him. It’s not that he meant to be outright unreasonable it’s just that to approve Will’s request would be surrendering, a small victory he decides, surveying the dishes on the rack, but it would still be acquiescing, and it seems that he’s always doing that with Will these days. 

 

Yet, his head was already cloudy from the booze and the attentive hand down his pants and he wanted what Will was offering so he allowed himself to surrender. Allowed Will to spin him around and kiss his lips, his neck, to remove his jacket and waistcoat, and drag him up the stairs. 

As long as he was allowing it to happen, he told himself before he became incoherent, and not wanting it to happen, he’d be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Please review.


End file.
